Page 150 of One of Those Amnesia Stories

“Yeah,” I’d replied, my eyes on the road, my mind already back in the office. “Sure. Let’s do that.”

And then, on the day, I’d cancelled. An “urgent meeting.” The month after that, it was a “client dinner.” Then a “board report.” The monthly slot on the calendar, once sacred, became just another casualty.

The breakfasts together stopped because I left before she woke.

The texts dwindled to logistical queries. “Running late.” “Don’t wait up.”

The balcony sat empty.

I had cancelled our future without even realizing it. While I buried myself in work, the present kept moving without me. I poured every ounce of myself into creating a life I believed would keep us safe, convinced that sacrifice now would give us everything later. I kept securing a future she was supposed to share with me, never stopping to see that I was leaving her alone in the present.

The vibrant, colorful memory of our life together faded, overlaid by the grim, grey reality of my own choices: a series of cancellations, a growing silence, an empty side of the bed.

I missed everything.

Alessia cleared her throat, pulling me from the spiral. “So, you two used to have fun planning them together?”

My eyes found hers, my mind still reeling through the dread. “No,” I said, the word coming out raw. I cleared my throat. “We didn’t plan together. You… you used to come up with the idea. You’d research it, find the place, and then you’d share it with me.”

Her head tilted. “You never planned a single date? Never had a place you wanted to try?”

I shook my head. “Not really. The where never mattered to me. Only the who. The painting wasn’t important; it was that we were standing in front of it together. And you… you lit up when you planned. Your whole face would change. You’d get this little crease between your brows, thinking it through, and then your eyes would shine when you told me. You’d get this little proud smile. I didn’t want to take that from you. I loved watching you in that mode.”

Her gaze held mine, unwavering. “So I did it alone. I never asked for your input? Never suggested we brainstorm together?”

I frowned, mentally scrolling. “No, you did. You always asked. Every time. ‘Any ideas?’ ‘Want to brainstorm?’ ‘We can plan it together.’”

“And?”

“And I told you no. That anything you wanted was fine by me.” I let out a soft, self-deprecating chuckle. “God, if I ever planned anything, it would have been… staying in. Or that Italian place down the street. It wouldn’t have been fun. It wouldn’t have made your eyes shine like that.”

She kept studying me, her expression unreadable. Then she asked, quietly, “Did you ever tell her any of that?”

I froze. The air left my lungs. “What?”

“Did you tell her any of that?” she repeated, each word measured. “Did you tell her that all you wanted was to be with her? That you loved watching her light up? That she was the one who made it fun?”

My mind replayed the moments leading up to each date, searching through what had happened before them.

She was curled up on the couch with her laptop, glancing over her shoulder at me. “Any thoughts? I was looking at this sip-and-paint thing, or there’s a new immersive theatre show?”

She reached for her phone and held up a picture of a kayaking tour. “Too cheesy? We could do a food tour instead?”

And my response. Every single time.

“You’re better at this than me.”

“Whatever you want is fine.”

“I trust your judgment.”

“Fine.”

Fine.

The word echoed, pathetic and thin.

Fine?